


Sherlock Holmes Loves to Dance

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex, Sherlock Dances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sherlock loves to dance, but he never got the chance at John's wedding. What will he do now that they're finally together?





	Sherlock Holmes Loves to Dance

Doctor John Watson dragged his sorry arse up the final flight of steps to the second floor and the warmth and hominess that radiated through the open doors of 221B. God, what a day. He’d been called in on a consult by an old colleague who had suspected that an injury sustained by one of his patients had had its origins in some sort of domestic and/or criminal action. Consequently, John had found himself in the middle of a general brouhaha involving himself, the doctor, the patient, his common-law wife, his wife from a bigamous relationship (with whom he had been staying), his drug dealer (who was _also_ his common-law-wife’s lover), a bobbie who had been called to the scene, a drug mule who had been _with_ the patient when the dealer had tried to carve some condoms full of cocaine out of said patient, and a cabbie who had brought the dealer and the mule to the address to finally obtain the drugs and who hadn’t been paid yet. John had suspected that the most dangerous member of the party had been the cabbie. If you value your life, never, but _never_ , stiff a London cabbie.

 

Between John, his colleague, and the bobbie, they had managed to separate the combatants until reinforcements could arrive from a nearby station. Once all the major players had been sorted out and carted off, John had _finally_ turned his colleague and asked the question uppermost in his mind; “George, _why the hell did you call me into this clusterfuck_?  Is this revenge for that prank in medical school?”

 

Dr. George Mayer readjusted his bent glasses and settled them, still slightly askew, on the bridge of his nose before answering. “Well, actually, John, I had wanted your opinion because of your close association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I figured that, seeing as how you have seen _so_ _many_ crimes of this sort, you could back up my diagnosis before I contacted the police.”

 

John’s eyes rolled eloquently and his blood pressure leapt into the stratosphere. “ _What_? Are you telling me that you can’t recognize a carving knife wound in the arse as possibly being either a marital squabble or a drug-related injury? For God’s sake, man! You should have just called Scotland Yard and been _done_ with it! Why call _me_ in? Were you afraid your diagnosis would be somehow unsound or suspect?”

 

George shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. “Well, I thought you _might_ have brought your gun, as you have _so often_ done on your cases, and…”

 

John just stared in disbelief. “What did you think I was going to do, shoot them all? Are you _insane_?” He put his hand up and shook his head to forestall any further protestations. “Never mind, I don’t even want to know. Next time you have this sort of issue come up, George, call the bobbies first, _not_ me. I’m out of here.” He had grabbed his jacket from a nearby chair and stalked out of the trashed office and into the clear wintry air, allowing its chill to cool his flashing temper. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered as he strode past his own shuttered former office and toward 221B Baker St.

 

As he entered the toasty warmth of the kitchen, he heard a strange sort of music emanating from his and Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. It sounded sort of whiny and nasally and vaguely middle-eastern, from the snippets he could hear. It was accompanied by muted chiming sounds and light, rhythmic footsteps. His curiosity piqued, John walked stealthily to the door and listened intently. Yes, there was _definitely_ music and some sort of movement inside. Was it Sherlock? What could he _possibly_ be doing in there?

 

Frowning in consternation, John pushed open the door and stopped, frozen by the sight he beheld. There, standing in front of his mirrored wardrobe, stood one Mr. Sherlock Holmes; half-naked, hips undulating, shoulders and arms moving in a snake-like fashion, dressed like an archetypical genie. He, too, froze when he realized John was standing there with his jaw lax, eyes wide, and, frankly, trousers bulging.

 

“Er, John! I, uh, didn’t hear you come in! I, I thought you’d be gone longer...” Sherlock stammered as he turned off the cd player and turned to face John, hands clasped behind his back like a child who had just been caught playing dress-up with Mummy’s clothes. He rocked on his bare feet, which were decorated by beaded ankle bracelets with chains leading down to his long, agile toes.

 

John stared. No, he _gaped_. _Never_ had he ever seen Sherlock in quite this way before. It both surprised and... _intrigued_ him. There was also a healthy dose of arousal thrown into the mix. Sherlock’s mercurial eyes darted around the room, then back to John, as if looking for some way to explain...

 

John self-consciously muttered, “Uh, excuse me,” as he backed quickly out of the door and slammed it shut in his own face. He just... _stood_ there for a minute, staring straight ahead at the blank door, blinking. He’d walked in on Sherlock in many degrees of dishabile, but never quite like... _that_.

 

After finally shaking off the initial shock, John knocked politely on the door. “Um, may I come in?”

 

“It’s your room too, John,” came the muffled answer.

 

John opened the door slowly, still holding his medical bag in one hand, cleared his throat, and asked, “Is, uh, is this for a case?”

 

Sherlock gazed at him, pressed his lips together momentarily, and said, “No”

 

“Oh, okay” John nodded, uncomprehendingly. “Not for a case, then.”

 

A shake of the head. “No, John.”

 

John was becoming uncomfortably aware of a gradual tightening in his pants. As he shifted around a little to ease the constriction, he couldn’t miss the slow, satisfied smile that was creeping over Sherlock’s lips as he took notice of the _exact_ same thing. Sherlock’s body language suddenly changed. He straightened up and stood on one hip, his head canted provocatively.

 

“So, uh, no case, but you’re dressed up like...” John was at a loss. His eyes couldn’t stop moving, taking it all in. Sherlock, his flatmate and lover, standing there in their bedroom, wearing a loosely-wrapped turban embroidered in purple and gold over his dark curls, some of which were still peeking out from under the fabric.

There were heavy gold chains around his neck, a pair of gem-encrusted earrings hanging from his ear lobes, and a multitude of clanging gold-and-silver bracelets on his wrists. He wore a softly-draped shirt with full sleeves and a neckline cut down to his belt, showing his sparse chest hair and the single bullet scar near his heart. Over his hips was a wrap of purple-and-gold fabric, sporting gold coins and fringe that flashed and danced when he moved. The purple-and-gold print harem-style pants, again with gold trim, sat low on his hips and sported slits down the sides, reflecting the slits in the full sleeves of his top. Chiming anklets and an embroidered and gold- embellished short vest completed the picture. He looked... _stunning_. Beautiful, exotic, and _totally_ fuckable. “Care to explain why?”

 

Still wearing a seductive smile, Sherlock took a step or two toward John. This set his entire outfit into motion, something John’s cock felt _required_ to point out. John gulped as Sherlock said, “At your wedding, I told Janine that I loved to dance but had no real outlet to do so. Recently, I decided to do something about it. Remember our dinner at that Middle Eastern restaurant a few months back?”

 

Barely able to speak because of the lump in his throat, John just nodded.

 

“Well, I approached one of the dancers—the one you liked so much—and asked her where I could take some lessons. I’m too old for ballet or some of the _other_ dance forms, but between the costumes and the relative ease of movement involved in belly dance, I thought I would give it a try.” His smile broadened as John tried to re-adjust himself without being obvious about it. “I thought it might be a nice... _surprise_ for you.”

 

“Um, uh, yeah, it...it _is_ ,” John finally forced out. “I just wasn’t... _expecting_...” He looked Sherlock up and down and licked his lips unconsciously.”God, you look _great_. But how can _you_ do belly dance? Isn’t that just for women?”

 

Sherlock looked mildly offended. “Not at all, John! Male dancers are not uncommon, they just dress and move a little differently. Mariyah has been teaching me...” without warning, Sherlock performed a perfect belly roll, both up and down, followed by a hip shimmy, “a great many things about male dance.”

 

John felt his knees turn to jelly. He dropped his medical bag and grabbed onto the door frame. “Shit, Sherlock, _warn_ me before you do something like that!”

 

Eyebrows knitted together, Sherlock stated, “It’s not _meant_ to be _sexual_ , John...”

 

“Tell _that_ to my cock. All the blood in my body just _rushed_ to it.”

 

Shaking his head, his entire expression screaming “Philistine!”, Sherlock said, “Why don’t you go get yourself a drink and sit down, John?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I think I will,” John agreed, rubber-kneeing it into the parlor, where he poured himself a stiff drink and settled into his chair. A good, solid jolt of single-malt liquor came as something of a relief after the day he’d just had. As he took another sip, he noticed music wafting out of the back bedroom again, only louder this time. He turned in his chair and nearly snorted the single malt out of his nose.

 

In the hallway, Sherlock posed in his garb, arms over his head, forearms resting against the walls, hips canted, eyes smoldering. As John watched, he _insinuated_ his way through the kitchen, moving like a jungle cat on two feet, his hips swaying seductively, footfalls silent, jewelry chiming. As the high-pitched, nasal music continued (“It’s called _saidi_ ,” Sherlock had said, as if John would remember under his current circumstances) Sherlock danced, undulated, shimmied, and belly-rolled his way through a choreography that fascinated and entranced John. It was like watching some mystical spirit enticing him with its beauty and grace of movement. While he could see what Sherlock meant about it not being _sexual_ in nature (he’d seen enough exotic dancers in bars to understand the difference), it certainly conveyed the _sensuality_ of the dancer. He was _mesmerized_ by the way Sherlock moved, how he approached and then retreated from him, all the while watching him with eyes that glinted silver just as his costume glinted gold. He wanted _so badly_ to reach out, to pull Sherlock to him, to possess him in every way possible, but he knew the rules common to all establishments; _Don’t touch the dancers._

 

That just made it more _infuriating_. While he would _never_ consider touching a dancer under any _other_ circumstances, this was _Sherlock_. This was his _lover_. God, he was so _beautiful_ , so _beguiling_ as he danced, his hips circling, his shoulders rolling, his whole body sinuous and snaky yet his movements strangely _chaste_...John downed the rest of the glass with one gulp.

 

When the music trailed away at the end, Sherlock bowed before John, breathing hard. As he stood back up again, John said, “that was... _amazing_ , Sherlock. _You’re_ amazing.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, strangely touched by the compliment. He stepped over to John and knelt before him. Looking into his slate blue eyes, Sherlock admitted, “I...did have another motive for learning this. Besides loving to dance, that is.”

 

“Yeah? What’s that?” John asked, his voice soft.

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together nervously before he spoke. “I...I never want you to get tired of me, or bored with our relationship. If I can keep you _interested_...” His eyes said the rest.

 

John was gobsmacked. “ _Interested_? My God, Sherlock, you are an embarrassment of riches! How am I _ever_ supposed to get tired of you? Right now, my cock is trying to burrow its way through my fly to flag you down! If you become any more ‘interesting’, I’m going to end up in hospital!”

 

Sherlock grinned. John reached out to grab his face in both hands, but stopped, mid-movement, and asked, “May I touch the dancer?”

 

“Of course, John,” Sherlock laughed. “I did this for you, too.”

 

His face cradled in John’s hands, Sherlock received kiss upon kiss, each one becoming more heated and more passionate until, finally, John broke off and, nodding toward the bedroom door, said, “You want to?”

 

An emphatic nod. “Oh, God, yes.”

 

The two rose, and John led Sherlock by the hand into the bedroom. Once there, bits and pieces of clothing and costume were hastily removed and either draped or thrown over various nearby pieces of furniture while kissing and groping proceeded unabated. John was completely defrocked first, which was _just_ how he had wanted it. Sherlock still had on his shirt, belt, and harem pants, along a few select pieces of jewelry. The rest, John had expertly removed with his fingers and teeth, much to Sherlock’s delight.

 

“Come here, love,” John motioned from his supine position in the center of the bed. Sherlock started to remove the rest of his outfit but John stated, firmly, “No. Keep them on.” When Sherlock gave him a challenging look, he added, “Please.”

 

“This outfit is _not_ for sex, John,” Sherlock said, primly. “It’s for _art_.”

 

John grinned at his lover’s cheekiness. “Then let me show you how _sex_ can be made into an _art_...”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose appraisingly. “You damage it, you replace it.”

 

“Agreed. Now get over here.”

 

Not entirely convinced, Sherlock crawled onto the bed, straddling John’s hips. John slid his fingertips under the hip wrap and began to tease the harem pants down Sherlock’s slender hip while rolling his pelvis upward into Sherlock’s own. Sherlock ran his hands over John’s chest and sides, sometimes leaning down to bestow a lingering kiss upon John’s lips or neck. He might have even left a love bite or two, but John was in no condition to care. Eventually, John slid Sherlock’s harem pants out from between them and discovered that Sherlock wasn’t wearing anything underneath them. The skin-to-skin friction was _delicious_ , the rubbing of their bollocks and cocks together out-of-this-world. John kept his eyes on his lover as he slipped Sherlock’s cock out from under his long-tailed shirt and bracketed it with the tails of his spangly purple belt. The sight was arousing beyond belief.

 

He could feel his own cock hardening even more, until it felt like it must be made of tungsten steel. The need...God, the _need_ to be inside this man was _overwhelming._ As he reached for the lube with one hand, the fingers of the other were busy finding that sweet entry underneath the coins and sequins of Sherlock’s belt. The moan/sigh Sherlock made when he started massaging that puckered flesh told John that Sherlock was no longer much concerned about the condition of his costume anymore. Instead, he was rocking himself against John’s fingers, trying to self-insert them inside. The application of lube made that feat more achievable...and more comfortable. As John inserted finger after finger, Sherlock rocked and writhed on them like a coiling snake. 

 

_God, the dancing, I think it’s actually helped him to_ … The sudden realization snapped John’s cock to full attention, harder than he had remembered it being since he was 18.  _I have to have this man, I_ _**must** _ _have this man, gotta get inside him, gotta, gotta, gotta…_

 

“Lift up, love,” John grunted. Sherlock lifted his hips and John positioned himself at the entry, to ensure that the tip would make a clean entrance. He needn’t have worried; Sherlock impaled _himself_ upon John’s waiting cock

in one smooth motion. Both cried out at once as their respective needs were fulfilled. Sherlock’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth mindlessly open  as he rocked on John’s member . John watched in fascination and excitement as Sherlock’s dusky cock bounced up and down between the two tails of purple and gold fabric as Sherlock thrust John’s  cock deeply into himself. Every inch ensheathed inside his lover, John ran his hands over all the naked flesh on  his lover’s body, sliding his shirt off his shoulders, stopping to pinch those  tempting  pink nipples until they were taut and dark, grasping his buttocks through the gauzy hip wrap and feeling Sherlock’s muscles ripple beneath the skin as Sherlock  bounced and circled his hips on John’s cock, creating sensations John had never felt before. It was  _glorious_ . 

 

With a flurry of thrusts downward onto John’s thick member, Sherlock cried out and came in a burst of silky cum all over John’s belly. John thrust upward with purpose, making Sherlock’s orgasm more intense still by hitting his prostate over and over again. The increased movement, combined with the raw pleasure of watching his lover come while still wearing his costume, made John lose it completely. His hands tight on Sherlock’s hips, he drove his cock deep inside as he jammed Sherlock down on it _hard_ and held them together as he yelled out, his cock doing its own dance inside, depositing its cum high up inside Sherlock. They were both locked in an ecstatic communion, their bodies taut, their minds narrowed down to one single point of overwhelming pleasure.

 

Sherlock wilted first, having done most of the hard work. He melted to one side and fell, bonelessly, into the sheets with a sigh. John just lay there, panting.  _God, that was good, that was so,_ _ **so** _ _good_ …

 

“It was, wasn’t it?” Sherlock replied, breathlessly.

 

John’s head swiveled on the pillow to face Sherlock. “Bugger! Do you  _always_ know what I’m thinking?”

 

Eyes still closed, Sherlock smiled. “No, but  _this_ time, I could probably have laid good money on it.”

 

The two giggled. Sherlock reached out to place a hand on John’s chest and rolled in for a snuggle. John kissed his forehead and said, “That...was incredible. Not just the sex, but the dancing. You’re a natural.”

 

Sherlock squirmed in even closer. “Glad you approve. So, do you think I should continue with my training?”

 

John shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely! Do they have competitions for that sort of thing?”

 

“They have dance parties, or _haflas_ , if that’s what you mean, yes.”

 

John smiled. “Good. If you want to go to any, I’ll go with you. Not to  _dance_ , mind you, but to  _watch_ . Would that be okay?”

 

Sherlock’s smile was all the answer he needed.


End file.
